


Four minutes

by Omi_Lightbearer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Gen, HLV, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Oneshot, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Lightbearer/pseuds/Omi_Lightbearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's thoughts as he sits on the plane that's taking him away for good. Short ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four minutes

 

There were many things Sherlock Holmes could accomplish in four minutes. His mind worked much faster than ordinary people’s; he could jump to conclusions while others were only beginning to take in the facts. He saw, pushed events and people through a sieve, atomized them, took what he needed and stored the rest for later use. He had always thought of his brain as a perfect machine and his eyes as the best means available to get him to the truth.

There were many things Sherlock Holmes could accomplish in four minutes but that day he sat on the plane as numb as a puppet, his face a wax mask, his lips curved into a grimace of pain. The inner workings of his mind had all but stopped, as if he were frozen in time, and the thoughts that had begun to haunt him a few months before came back to him like an echo. He could add nothing, remove nothing, deduce nothing. He let them be. He felt their chilling effect tearing every limb of his body with surgical precision.

Just how much had escaped him, the almighty consulting detective! —the unwanted, heartbroken, soon-to-die detective. He pressed his fingers against the cold glass pane in a childish gesture, trying to catch a last glimpse of the man below, although he knew full well that the plane had soared up and John was not even a speckle on a green field anymore. He’d said goodbye to his pressure point. His John. Someone else’s John.

Sherlock didn’t really believe in the afterlife; heaven and hell belonged in the mind of the superstitious. Yet how distinct did that purgatory feel, he thought. Maybe he was dead. He might have died as he fell off the building. He might have died in East Europe while he was undercover. He might have died when Mary shot him. Everything else might have been an illusion created by an unknown higher power to torment his heart. It didn’t matter now.

Apparently, there were a number of emotions that he shared with ordinary people. The difference was that, whereas ordinary people grew accustomed to such emotions throughout their life and had time to learn how to cope, Sherlock had had an avalanche come his way, a meteorite fall on his head, an atomic bomb of affection, jealousy and agony open a gaping hole within his heart. And it had all happened really fast. All these emotions he had forsworn seemed to have taken turns twisting the knife in a mad attempt to get back at him.

He rested his forehead on the sidewall and closed his eyes. The words he hadn’t spoken had brought a lump to his throat. Had there been sadness on John’s face even as he smiled at Sherlock’s makeshift joke? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t allowed himself to notice. The John he had left behind _had_ to be happy. That was the whole point. He didn’t have to grieve for Sherlock again as he had done two years earlier. This time it would be Sherlock pining, caught in an endless spiral of sadness. Not for long, mind you. He was off to his death after all.

Sherlock strove to pull himself together, to focus. He thought of his addictions. Tobacco and drugs had been harmless compared to the doctor. Sherlock had held a glass brimming with friendship and trust, taken a long draught and got inebriated. His hands were empty now and he knew he was doomed to thirst, for there was nothing worth sampling, tasting, feeling anymore.

If there had ever been a chance to keep John by his side forever, he’d missed it. Sherlock had been blind in many ways. He had built a wall between himself and everyone else, and hadn’t seen his friend standing on the other side patiently, waiting for the door to open. He’d made John mourn his death, which probably was his greatest tragic mistake. He’d given him up and by the time he’d waltzed back into the doctor’s life it was too late. Mary had been smart. She’d taken advantage of the situation and got herself an awesome man. And who could blame her? Sherlock had tried to ensure that at least they could be alright. He had been determined to remove any obstacles that stood between John and happiness, including himself.

A part of him prayed —not to God, for he was a godless man— that things could be different. The sheer pointlessness of these thoughts appalled him. It couldn’t be helped, much like the dreams he’d had the previous night. In them, John had actually held his hand after he had shot Magnussen; he had given Sherlock a knowing look and muttered _I know why you’ve done it_. He had seemed resolved not to let go of Sherlock’s hand again. _I love you, John. I’ll never get to say it. I’ll never wreak havoc on your life again._

There had been a tear glimmering in the corner of Sherlock’s eye when the phone rang. Mycroft’s words pierced through his mind like thunderbolt, and suddenly he was alert, his mind focused once again. He got to go back home, where the real war would be fought. It didn’t matter that it was too late. John would be there —he would be home, no, he _was_ home, his only home—, which meant that Sherlock’s four minutes of utter despair were over.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's short but I had to get it out. I've been feeling sorry for Sherlock since I watched HLV...


End file.
